


Fox Mulder’s Guide to Falling (and Staying) in Love with Your Partner

by dksfwm



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-11 22:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 19,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12945000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dksfwm/pseuds/dksfwm
Summary: Or, a series of ficlets on the progression of Mulder and Scully’s “friendship,” all of them taking place in a car. Because damn, they honestly spent a lifetime in the car.





	1. (1)

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t really have any plan for how this is going to go, but it will most likely be one per season or something. Also, I started grad school yesterday, so I have no timeline for completing the rest of these, but I’ve had this idea in my head for months and if I didn’t start it now, I never would. So, thanks in advance for bearing with the pace that I’ll be getting these out!

It starts with them sitting in their rented car outside of an old abandoned Victorian. The last occupant died in that very house, he’d been told. Over the last three months, four couriers, all from a variety of delivery agencies, have disappeared; all had packages addressed to the house on their route on the dates of their disappearance. So, naturally, he thinks that the dead former occupant of the house is responsible.

They had been in the car for almost three hours, the clock rapidly approaching 1 a.m. when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nodding off.

He knew she felt this stakeout was unnecessary. _Mulder, a dead man couldn’t possibly be kidnapping these delivery men_ , she had said. And for the time being, she was right. Local police had searched the house and found it completely empty.

But she came with him anyway. He suspects she’s still trying to make an impression, to prove herself worthy, after only a handful of cases together. Little does she know, although he was less than thrilled to be partnered with anyone in the first place, after reading her senior thesis, he feels a bit inferior. No, not inferior, but rather finally intellectually matched and challenged. She has nothing to prove to him, he’s already completely fascinated by her.  
  
He realizes that although he knows her skepticism, in spite of said senior thesis, her performance at the academy, and the original intention of her secondary education, the life of Special Agent Dana Katherine Scully (he knows her full name, too) is something of a mystery. A mystery he suddenly has the urge to solve.

“What’s your favorite color?” He gnaws on a seed, keeping the air casual.

It’s an innocent question, but nevertheless, her right eyebrow shoots up (and where did she learn to do that, so perfectly mastering the one-eyebrow raise, he wonders) like he just presented her a pick-up line.

“What’s yours, Mulder?” Her tone is almost accusatory.

“Nope, I asked first. Give a little get a little, Scully.”

There’s a searching look plastered to her face, as if she’s trying to dissect his intentions. They’re honorable, he assures. He’s noticed that they seem to have some sort of simpatico, like their thoughts and actions, especially in the field, are synched. So he tries to communicate his objectives by letting that simpatico take over, adjusting his eyes so that they become perceptive, eagerly awaiting a response, offering a soft smile. And though she presents a smile of her own in return, she turns her head to stare out the front windshield, her profile glowing off the reflection from the moon, avoiding the question.

It takes her more than five minutes to give in, to show a crack in the foundation of the walls he knows she’s built up. Her breathing had become so soft and slow and her eyes had closed, he’d thought maybe she had actually gone to sleep. Her voice is just above a whisper when she finally acquiesces and piques his curiosity.

“Lavender.”

“That’s a very specific shade, a simple ‘purple’ would have sufficed.” But, no, it wouldn’t have, and they both know it. “Why lavender? Boyfriend used to come home with them?”

“Give a little get a little, Mulder.” He eyes are open now and they’re smiling, it seems. She’s teasing him, he realizes, playing along. Her face is tilted slightly in his direction, encouraging his response. He already respects her, but maybe now he even likes her.

“Dark blue. Since we’re getting specific, the color that the ‘Midnight Blue’ Crayola crayon produces.” He smirks, game, set, match.

She begins to offer him an explanation. “Believe it or not, I actually don’t like the smell or the plant itself. And, uh, no time for a boyfriend. You already keep me up at all hours of the night.” She smirks right back at him, and he’s struck at her outright flirting. It’s his game, but she’s definitely come to play.  
  
They’ve both shifted so that their bodies are fully facing each other. “But my father was a Navy Captain, and for a short while he was stationed in Jacksonville. We were there less than a year. I hated Florida, truthfully. But that summer, my mom decided I was old enough to walk to this little ice cream shop not far from base housing. And the entire outside of the shop was painted a lavender color. I visited it probably every other day that summer we were there. Lavender is associated with a happy memory during an unpleasant part of my childhood.” He notices that she talks with her hands, and files the information away in his eidetic memory for safekeeping.

He nods and hums his approval, even more captivated with the enigma that is his partner in front of him. He is now facing the windshield, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. She tucks her hair behind her ear, and he wonders if this is her way of showing her attentiveness. As if moving her hair out of the way will allow her to hear him better.

“‘Midnight Blue’ is the the last color you see in the sky as the sun sets, before it’s engulfed by black. In fact, it’s actual partially mixed with the black, so believe it or not, the sky is never completely devoid of color.”   
  
“You like sunsets, Mulder?” Her inquisitiveness is genuine, her voice lighthearted but not condescending.

“I like that sunsets remind me that I’ve completed a journey. Because that’s what every day is. I also like the fact that no two sunsets are ever the same. They’re always composed of the same colors, but they’re never an exact repeat of the night before. It’s kind of like all of us, you know? We’re all made up of the same basic components, but we’re all unique. And, whether or not people choose to see it, we all are full of color.”

Contemplative silence fills the car. It’s comfortable. They’re comfortable, he deduces. They’re going to get along just fine.

She looks as if she were about to ask another question, her curiosity regarding his unreserved analysis of the color of a crayon apparently not quite quenched, when the porchlight of the house, the observation of which they’ve neglected, suddenly flicks on.


	2. (2)

He’s lost track of the amount of times he’s asked her if she’s sure. Is she sure she wants to be partnered with him? Is she sure about her autopsy results? Is she sure about information someone’s told her? Is she sure she trusts her faith and her science? Is she sure she’s ready to come back to work? Is she sure she wasn’t abducted by aliens?

But Dana Scully is always sure.

She is silent for most of the drive to the airport. He doesn’t want to be in a car with her like this. Frankly, he doesn’t want to be on a plane or in the depths of a volcano with her, either. Not like this. Not so soon. But Dana Scully is always sure, and right now, she is sure that this is where she needs to be. And though he is thankful that she is here alongside him, he really wishes she would sit this one out. Take some time to spend with her mom, her sister. _I’ve already lost too much time_ , she had said. And with those eyes, crystal blue depths of dedication and perseverance, he could not deny her. And he doesn’t know why.

“What was it like?” They are two exits from the airport when she decides now is the time to bring this up.

His swallow is audible, he clears his throat. The tie around his neck is suddenly too tight. Where did all this sweat come from? He knows full well what she means, but advocating plausible deniability, he hopes, may throw her off. He does not want to be discussing this with her. Not here, not like this. She can’t possibly want to talk about this right now. “What was what like?”

But, as he has learned, Dana Scully is always sure.

“What was it like when I was gone?”

_Hell. Literal, actual, Hell. I wanted to kill everyone who stood in my way of finding you. I kept waiting for my chest to stop feeling constricted, to finally get some air. I thought I would never see you again, and then I thought you would never wake up. I felt I had failed you. And yet, I felt nothing at all._

“It was… uh…” How do you tell your partner, but a so-much-more-than partner, that you wanted to die because, for a second, you thought she was dead, too?

“I was told you didn’t take it well. By more than one person.” Melissa, undoubtedly. Her mother, most likely. _Hey Scully, your mom and I are kind of friends now. Did she tell you that, too?_ Skinner? Probably.

“No, I didn’t.”

She is looking her lap, and he hears nothing except for the thud of his heart. Not like this, Scully.

The brush of her fingers against the arm of his jacket shakes him out of his reverie. It takes every ounce of self control to not slam on the breaks out of panic. His pupils must be huge. He’s terrified of her, that she has this power, this hold over him. The only saving grace is that she doesn’t appear to realize it. That’s the only thing keeping him levelheaded around her. That he hasn’t broken down sobbing like he did a week ago, in his apartment, when he thought it was about to be over. When he thought his world might finally come crashing down on him.

He pulls onto the off-ramp, and all he can think about is getting the car to long-term parking, walking away, and not looking back. They don’t talk about these things, and he thinks he’s starting to understand why. Because she is a so-much-more-than partner. And, truthfully, he barely knows her. But oh, how he knows her.

“Why didn’t you give up?” Is she unaware that they have just about reached their travel-by-car destination?  “Apparently, everyone else did.” Her voice, her entire persona has gone smaller than he’s ever seen. His eyes glass over. Oh, Scully, not here.

He throws the car into park, forcefully, and he sees her jump slightly. He hears her start to say his name, but “Mul-” is all that registers before he flies out of his seat and slams the driver’s-side door. He unlocks the trunk and pulls his bag out, leaving the back of the car wide open for her, before he starts walking toward the doors of the terminal.

No, Scully. Not like this.

She says she’s ready to come back to work. She’s sure. Dana Scully is always sure.

Fox Mulder, on the other hand, isn’t sure of anything anymore.


	3. (3)

It’s the little things, he’s decided, that he likes most about her.

It’s the way the she greeted him this morning when he picked her up for their drive to check out a case in Connecticut, coffee in hand. She knows exactly how he takes it, how much room to leave and, subsequently, how much milk to add. The temperature he prefers. And as she slid into the car, handing over a travel mug, one that resides in her apartment specifically for him, a gratifying smile accompanied her.

Her smile is contagious, he has no doubt about it. The way her plump pink lips curl slightly at the corners. And when, on the rare occasions, he catches a glimpse of her teeth, stark white in contrast to the color they hide behind, he loses cognitive function. He melts. She doesn’t smile enough, which, in retrospect, is better for his sanity. But lately, she has been smiling more. He hopes, selfishly, that she smiles for no reason other than she simply likes this journey that they’re on, whatever it may be. That they simply spend time together.

It’s the face she makes when she’s reading a map, absorbed. Her posture is perfectly square in the passenger seat. So much concentration etched in the subtle wrinkles that fall above her brow. The tip of her tongue grazing the expanse of her lips. Her delicate fingers, fingers that pull triggers and make Y-incisions and fold over each other in prayer and occasionally tangle with his, tracing the lines of the highways as she follows the pattern of their route.

It’s the way she fidgets with the cross around her neck. Especially when she’s hunched over files that are spread on a motel bed. It’s as if she uses her cross to help her focus, to recenter her thoughts. She touches her cross, and he thinks she comes back to reality. And he likes that her faith wavers at times; it makes her more human.

It’s the rhythm they fall into as soon as they take their places in the car. She had complained recently about not getting to drive more often, and he, regrettably, made a comment at the expense of her height. But if he’s being honest, he likes when he drives and she rides next to him. There’s something about their ability to navigate like this. It’s familiar, like they’ve been doing it their whole lives.

It’s the way she says his name. “Mulder.” He’s heard it thousands of times, but never quite like how she says it. It’s why she’s the only one who calls him “Mulder” on a regular basis. He had told her that everyone called him Mulder, but truthfully, he was fine with “Fox.” Until he met her. Until she said “Agent Mulder” and eventually just “Mulder” enough that his name coming from her lips was like a breath of fresh air. A whisper of a prayer into the wind. It’s significance meant only for him. She says his name, and he feels whole.

And her mind. Oh, her mind deserves its own category of likeness. The way she spits paragraphs of medical jargon at him. The way she challenges and attempts to invalidate his theories with her sophisticated vocabulary. Sometimes he thinks he can actually see the logic of her brain, the wheels turning, the path it takes to substantiate her conclusions. Her mind is intoxicating. And he wants to know every inch of it.

He wonders what keeps her here, in this car right beside him. If it’s the same thing that’s keeping him here. For him, it’s more that just a quest for a missing sister, the proof of an alien civilization. It is something that he never expected. Since her, it is now more than the need for unrelenting justice and virtue, authentication of a government conspiracy. No, most importantly, their journey has become about finding themselves through finding each other.

He also wonders if his fondness of her is obvious. He knows that he doesn’t tell her enough, if at all, just how much he appreciates having her in his life. How their partnership, friendship, whatever it is, has given him new meaning. He thinks of the lives they’ve lost, the amount of times they’ve almost lost each other.

Just recently, he turned a gun so quickly on himself, yet held back with everything he had to protect her. He saw how shaken she was, by the ease of which he didn’t hesitate pulling the trigger on himself, the precision of which he had placed the gun at his temple, ensuring that had there been a bullet in that chamber, there would be no chance for survival. The single tear that escaped her lid, her anguished plea for him to fight the mind control. It was if something inside him clicked. The potential that he could mean as much to her as she does to him. And later, he knew by the desperate grasp of her hand in his at the bedside of their latest demon that he had miscalculated how much the notion of his death could affect her.

He’s done everything in his power to make sure she doesn’t know the depths of his feelings for her. He wonders if she can see right through him anyway.

He takes a mental picture of her as they cross over into New York, more than halfway through their drive, surrounded by the waters below the George Washington Bridge. He could see her in New York, the hustle and bustle of big-city life, constantly encompassed by civilization. A life she would thrive in, and one where he would suffocate. But he doesn’t really want her to be here, if it means he won’t be able to see her every day.

He loves her, of that he knows for certain. But he will never voice it. He vows to never let that love become lust, to never be _in_ love with her. Because having only just a part of her is better than having none of her.

So he lets the tires of the car continue to spin, and he dreads the moment they have to stop.


	4. (4)

“Truth or dare, Scully?” _Keep the mood light. Try not to think of the ticking time bomb that lies directly in the center of her forehead. Keep her distracted. Keep yourself distracted._

“Mulder, I’m tired. I don’t want to play.”

_Keep her awake. Do not let her give in to death. Do not let yourself give in, either._ “Come on, Scully, we’ve been stuck in traffic for hours.”

“Mulder, it’s been fifteen minutes.”  
  
“Normally, it only takes fifteen minutes to get to your apartment from the hospital. We’ve moved half a mile in that time today.”

_Ignore the fact that you know how long it takes to get to her apartment from the hospital. Ignore the fact that you’ve just picked her up from a round of chemo, even though she told you not to. Ignore the fact that she’s dying._

“Fine. Truth.” _It only takes her a few seconds to concede. Maybe she wants the diversion just as much as you do._

“Really?” _Privately wish that she had chosen “dare,” but remember that this is Scully, and she probably practically decided that the Mulder car-bound dares usually require more effort than she most likely has._

“Ask me now before I change my mind.”

“Okay, okay.” _Ponder for a few seconds, but ask your question with confidence._ “If you could only eat one ice cream flavor for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

“You’re not serious?”  
  
 _Take note of the playful tone of her response, the quirk of her eyebrow, which continues to mesmerize you. Allow yourself to give her an honest smile. Note the modest adjustment in her disposition, the slight relaxation of her shoulders, the faint increase to the pitch of her vocalizations. You have perked her up, somewhat, with your chaste yet sincere question. Commit to keeping the rest of this drive with the hint of a coquettish ambience, what your conversations were like before she knew of her illness._

“Mulder, what kind of question is that?”

“My game, Scully, my rules.”

“You did not invent ‘Truth or Dare,’ Mulder.”

“Are you going to answer the question?”

“Frankly, I’m surprised you asked me something so innocent.”  
  
“I’m just easing you into this, Scully.”

_Notice that traffic is clearing, breathe a sigh of relief. Press your foot slightly harder on the gas, indicating your restlessness, your impatience. Wait quietly for her to provide her answer, but don’t let the silence assume control of the remainder of your drive._

“Mulder, pull over right now.”  
  
“What?” _Try to mask your annoyance, that she wants you to stop just as you’ve finally gained momentum. She is dying, and you have no right to be complaining._  
  
“Right. Now.”

_Pull the car over just in time for her to whip open the passenger door. Feel like an ass for not understanding her initial request, for not noticing the signs of her nausea, the side effects of her chemo. Sit there helplessly as she hurls to the side of the road. Ignore the honks from the cars behind you._

_Get out of the car once her heaving subsides. Avoid getting hit by the other vehicles passing around you as you make your way in front of her. Resist the urge to flip everybody off for continuing to honk at you. Step over the pile of vomit. Crouch down and look her in the eyes._

_See the tears that sting them, the dark circles that surround them. See the redness that has made the blue of her irises even more intense, more cerulean than you’ve ever seen. See the color slowly creep back into her cheeks. Chide yourself for thinking that she still looks beautiful, even with death knocking at her doorstep. Lay your palms out flat in front of you, and wait until she accepts your comfort. Because she will, eventually._

“Scully, it’s ok-”

“No, Mulder. It’s not.”  
  
 _Let her interrupt you. Gently squeeze her fingers. Brush her hair away from her face. Don’t take it personally that she is not able to meet your eyes. Let your actions tell her that you understand, that she is still your best friend and your protector, that you accept her anyway._

_Grab a water bottle out of the back of the car. Offer it to her. Make your way back to the driver’s seat as she takes generous sips. See the transformation as she regains her composure, the moment she switches from patient to professional. Hate that she won’t allow herself to be vulnerable at a time like this._

“And to answer your question,” _take note of the life that has returned to her voice_ , “probably mint chocolate chip.”

_Laugh silently and shake your head. Thank whatever god she believes in for gracing your life with her presence, that she cooperates with your trivial pastimes and ventures. Pray to that same god that she may be granted with more time. And remember to bring her some mint chocolate chip ice cream the next time you see her._

_Recognize that you are an oxymoron. You won’t let yourself accept her impending demise, but you live in constant fear that today may be her last. It’s exhausting, but you don’t know how to function any other way. Today, after what you’ve just witnessed, is no different._

_Remind yourself again not to fall in love with her. Ignore the fact that it may already be too late._


	5. (5)

They’re somewhere in the middle of nowhere Michigan. Middleville, the sign reads. It actually is the “middle” of nowhere.

Their flight from D.C. to Grand Rapids had been tense, and he knew it was entirely on him. He was on edge, restless. He felt like he was suffocating, as if a blue whale had beached and was planted firmly on his chest. His legs were shaking the entire flight, and often he thought of getting up simply to walk the aisle, to calm himself down. The flight was only two hours, but he felt as if it was never going to end. Sitting next to her with her legs crossed, lips pursed, occasionally glancing, constantly on the verge of appearing to initiate conversation, he contemplated sliding across the aisle into the empty seat in the row next to them. But she said nothing, merely flipped through the case file, noting things to look for in the autopsy she would perform when they landed.

He has become conscious of the fact that he is afraid, and his restlessness, apparently, is how he’s coping with that cognizance. He is afraid because he almost killed her, that he wouldn’t listen to her attempts to convince him of her identity and, subsequently, was almost killed himself. He is afraid of the monsters they encounter, the evils that run his world. But for the most part, he is afraid of how he would react if she really were to die, of his inability to function in a world without her. He is afraid of how she has consumed him.

He practically sprints off the plane when it finally lands.

The drive to Coats Grove isn’t any better. He refuses to meet her eyes, attempting to restrain even from so much as a fleeting glance. But he is human, he can’t not look at her, even when he doesn’t want to, even when doing so crushes him. He waits, every time, until she looks out her window, not taking a chance for the potential of eye contact.

He’s noticed that she is gaining weight in all the right places, her curves filling back out, since her cancer. Her hips have regained their tempting flair, her breasts perkier, fuller. Color, flush has come back into her skin, and though she is still relatively pale, she is no longer translucent. The red of her hair even seems deeper, perhaps a shade darker, and pristinely cut, signifying restoration, resilience, reinvigoration. Her cheeks are chubbier, slightly, not enough to be considered chipmunk-like or schoolgirlish, but enough that he’s desperate to trace them, to feel their weight in his hands, especially when she smiles; her sharp but delicate jawline is still apparent, immaculate, beautiful, and fitting with the rest of her profile.

Along with the return of her health, her wittiness, her brazenness, and her underlying lighthearted character have materialized. They have both gotten bolder, since her remission. Her outright flirting about wine and cheese and raining sleeping bags in a Florida forest, his head on her lap, desperate for warmth, but mostly desperate for contact. His hand extending to her, pulling her from her chair at a dimly-lit table and spinning her to the sounds of Cher.

She is healthy. Happy. Simple as that. Miraculously so, after the ordeals she’s been through. She is starting to look like Scully again. And he likes this new version of the old Scully. He loves her like this, even. But he is only in love with her when she is in danger, when she is standing with one foot in her grave, when she is broken.

What worries him is how she’s pushed aside her feelings about Emily. This is the Scully he lusts for, the one with a dead daughter, the one that is broken. This Scully should not be holding it all together, but she is. As if her cancer took away her ability to grieve. He’s tried broaching the topic, to offer all his sympathy, but even at the mention of the little girl’s name, she shuts him out, pushing her emotions off what he pictures is a metaphorical cliff.

He chides himself for seeing her dead daughter as a setback in the progression of their partnership, their friendship, their, he dares, relationship, when, in his mind, it should be just the spark they need to take plunge into uncharted territory. She refuses to talk about Emily, the biological piece of her destined for a premature, inhumane end. She keeps any remarks on the subject locked in that tight box of hers and shelters it away from the light of day. And it terrifies him, adds to his fear.

He does not understand why it is only when Scully has fallen apart that he chooses to be in love with her. When you love someone, you love them unconditionally, not depending on their current circumstances. Usually, people run for the hills at the first sign of another’s distress, their melancholy, their demons. But not him. He thrives on it, her pain, her sorrow. He wonders if maybe he cannot love her when she is happy because he cannot share her joy. Because he may be more broken than she is.

She’s turned away from him again in the car, staring out the passenger window, watching the miles of flat land and dry grass as he navigates them toward their destination. He uses this brief time to determine her mood by analyzing her posture. Her body language has always been louder than words.

She’s angry at him, clearly, that much he can tell. Although her head is turned toward the window, her upper body is upright, straight as a board in the seat, her chin tilted just so, as if she’s holding her resentment in congruence with her confidence. He pictures her mind articulating, I can be just as stubborn as you can, Mulder.

And she is stubborn, frustratingly so, he has come to realize. But he has also learned that she has a soft spot for him. He attributes it to her dislike of their dynamic when they are at odds. Because they are a team, and because it is impossible for them to go on like this forever. It does not surprise him when she rattles their state of disequilibrium before he does.

“Mulder whatever feelings you’re harboring about what happened with Modell and Linda Bowman, you’ve got to stop.”

How is it she always knows? He has barely spoken to her, looked at her all day. And yet, instinctively, she knows his torment. It’s as if his demons have become hers, and she can feel the sheer force and trepidation of them as profoundly, thoroughly as he can.

He considers refusing to acknowledge the attempt she is making at reconciliation. But, as if by instinct, his jaw and his grip on the steering wheel tighten. His defenses are going up. He shifts a little in his seat, and, regardless of the subtlety, he realizes that this is enough for Scully to recognize that he has heard her.

“Come on, Mulder, you have to talk to me about this.”

“God dammit Scully, I almost killed you! Again! You survived genetically engineered cancer only to almost die because I was under the influence of mind control!” He doesn’t intend to erupt at her. He doesn’t intend to sound so vicious either. But he does. You want to talk, Scully? Let’s talk.  
  
“Mulder, neither of those things are your faul-”

“Yes, they are! They gave you cancer because you got too close to me and we got too close to the truth. Everything hazardous that’s ever happened to you is because of me.”

She is quiet for some time. He knows she’s heard this confessional from him before, how guilty he feels for all the pain he’s caused her. He knows that she doesn’t blame him for anything. But, maybe, he wants her to hold him responsible. Maybe it will make his feelings for her more justified. That he’s obligated to love her, to make up for all of the pain he’s caused her.

He’s pulling into a spot in front of the coroner’s building when, softly, she replies.

“I’m not scared of you, Mulder. Please don’t try to push me away.”

For the first time all day, their eyes connect. It’s brief, his focus turning back to the building in front of him, but it tells him everything he needs to know.

She, too, loves him when he is in danger, when he is standing with one foot in his grave, when he is broken. When he is guilt-ridden, anguished, scared out of his mind. And maybe, just maybe, she can love him when he is complacent and whole, too. She certainly wants to, he’s realized. But he never lets her.

He is no longer afraid.


	6. (FTF)

She insisted on driving, not trusting his assertion that he was no longer drunk, that the sheer knowledge of the information Kurtzweil had supplied him with had sobered him up. He slid into the passenger seat of her car, relieved that the seat was already slid back as far as it could go, no need to maneuver an additional obstacle as he clambered into it, his limbs slightly heavy with intoxication (because, of course she was right).

It dawned on him that he should feel sorry for her, that she doesn’t transport any other passengers who need to pull the seat forward. But he is feeling sanguine tonight, optimistic, like he can conquer the world. And perhaps it is the alcohol lingering in his bloodstream. But he relishes in the fact that the passenger seat of her car has been designated for him.

“Are you going to tell me where we’re actually going, or am I just supposed to guess?” It’s three o’clock in the morning, and she is smirking at him. There’s the slightest hint of irritation in her voice, but he knew she wouldn’t be here if she didn’t want to be. She is choosing him. And if he wasn’t so focused on getting her to look at dead bodies, he would show her exactly how thankful he is that she is choosing him, especially at this hour. Especially after everything else has been taken away from him.

“Bethesda Naval Hospital,” he tells her, as if it was obvious.

She puts the car in drive and heads north.

——

He’s pretty sure he hates Texas.

Texas is filled with vampires that woo his partner and drug his pizza, with buildings that house bombs that were never attempted to be defused. He now adds unmarked tanker trucks and unidentified helicopters to his loathsome mindset of Texas. And bees.

Yes, he would be incredibly grateful if he never has to step foot in Texas again.

They’re out of breath, panting, still, though the car is in motion and the cornfield is out of sight. He can just make out her face from the light of the moon; her eyes are wide, her hair is mussed, and she licks her lips, finally catching her breath, bringing herself back to reality. She huffs out a final audible sigh and brings her chin to her chest, closing her eyes, and reaching her hand out over the center console.

He takes it, gripping his other tighter on the steering wheel, and silently makes a promise, offering a squeeze. _You and me, Scully._ It is just the two of them on this deserted, two-lane highway, the closest airport still hours away. He knows he needs to get her back to D.C., and he knows that her fate rests in the hands of OPR. But he doesn’t care. Right now, it is just about this moment.

They have evaded a catastrophe. They are alive. They have each other. The two of them. Always the two of them.

Maybe Texas isn’t so bad, after all.

——

If he thought he hated Texas, then he can’t even begin to fathom the detestable opinions he has of Antarctica.

His only thought is to get to her, to find her, to finish what they started in his hallway. He doesn’t know how to drive a Sno-Cat, so he’s winging it. But he’s desperate, and learning how to drive a Sno-Cat on the fly seemed a hell of a lot faster to get to the coordinates that the Well Manicured Man gave him, as opposed to simply running through the snow, so he drives.

He keeps glancing over at the seat next to him, expecting her to be there, as if this weren’t a rescue mission, but rather just another expedition in their quest for the truth. She would have screamed at him already, knowing full-well that he doesn’t know how to operate one of these things, how he could get them killed. And he would convince her that it’s all part of the experience, one that she never expected to have but won’t regret having. He can picture her scoffing at him, rolling her eyes and furrowing her brows, calling him insane or ridiculous or incorrigible. But she would trust him enough to go along with him anyway.

He has to find her.

He had told her that she saved him, kept him honest, made him a whole person, that he owes her everything. It’s the closest to and admission of love as he could get. He’s not sure exactly what he would have done if the bee hadn’t stung her. He would have kissed her, he’s certain. But would he have taken it further? Would she have let him? Would it have been honest, a true act of love, no ulterior motives? Would he have slept with her in an attempt to make her stay?

He hates that it took a trek through Antarctica to consider the implications of the potential shift in their relationship. He hates that he doesn’t feel completely honorable.

Perhaps it’s better that they were interrupted. Perhaps he’ll finally get his act together, face his demons, and make good on his promise of oweing her everything, giving her the life she deserves. Perhaps.

——

“What now, Scully?”  
  
They had walked away hand-in-hand, poised to fight. Together, always together. Now, they sit in her car, unsure of how to proceed.

“Well, I don’t think they’re shipping me off to Utah anymore. Nor are they accepting my resignation, apparently.” She sounds amused, sardonic, even, at the memory of a temporary, almost permanent separation. He knows, frankly, that she is beyond relieved.

But they still don’t have the X-Files.

They’ve been here before, he’s realized. No X-Files, an uncertain future. But even then, when they were no longer partnered, they still had each other.

Her face, cheeks, forehead, chin, is bruised and scraped and pale, lips severely chapped, recovering from the effects of hypothermia. But she is still beautiful, painfully, breathtakingly so. Her hand was soft, despite the cuts, and it felt warm in his. The wound from where the bullet grazed his temple is still dark, bloodied, but otherwise he appears unscathed.

They’re an interesting pair, he thinks. They have enough scars combined to mark almost every inch of a singular body. He sometimes feels that way, anyway. They are essentially one, the two of them. They cannot survive without the other, not really, so it’s only logical that when one of them is marred, so is the other.

He’s tried to push her away many times, to prevent any more mutilations for either of them. Just now, he’d told her that he wasn’t going to let her die because of his cause, even though she, to a certain degree, already has. He told her to go be a doctor. And yet, here she still is. Regardless of what lies ahead, of what their future holds, she will always choose him, he’s discovered. He looks forward to the day when he can wholly, completely do the same.

“Let’s just go home.” She nods, understanding exactly what he intends, what he’s expressing. He will choose her, too, though he knows he will falter. She starts the car.

Right now, home is anywhere she is, wherever they are. In whatever capacity.


	7. (6)

It’s nearing midnight, another Bureau-issued sedan, parked on the side of a seemingly abandoned road. It’s their second official potential X-File since being reassigned back to them. He regards it only potential because _he_ hadn’t heard of or seen any indication of UFO activity in the outskirts of Pittsburgh. Yet here they are, surveilling the area, at _her_ request. The fact that she had stumbled upon the reports, multiple, at that, and suggested they look into it intrigued him. This is a change of pace for them, though he welcomes it and deems it almost necessary, anything to get their rhythm back. He suspects her objectives are concordant.  
  
She has her binoculars and she’s staring out the driver’s-side window looking across a field of nothingness when the thought dawns on him. It’s completely out of context and in all honesty, he doesn’t know why he’s thinking of this now, in a mundane situation with her likely and rightfully irritated with him, but his mind just takes off and he can’t stop himself.  
  
He wonders when he started thinking of Scully and himself as a couple.  
  
People have mistaken them for one before, numerous times, on countless occasions. In Kroner, Kansas alone, it seemed that the entire town assumed that they were together. He wonders what everyone else sees when they look at them, those that conclude that they are together in every sense of the word. Do they see them as just a man and a woman, doting after each other? Do others know that their two hearts beat as one?  
  
Hell, they’ve even gone undercover as a couple before. And he loved every second of it, basking in the feel of her in close proximity, getting to play house with her, the diamond on her finger and the gold band around his. It all felt so right, seemed to make so much sense, but at the same time, there was something nagging at him, telling him that everything was also, contrastingly, so wrong.  
  
The idea has certainly crossed his mind, the two of them romantically involved. Truthfully, the only thing separating them from truly being together is the sex. And at this point, it is no longer a question of if, but when. Emotionally, mentally, they already complete each other. But oh, to actually touch her, to love her all-consumingly.  
  
He’s fascinated by how annoyed she looks when someone makes the insinuation. As if being bound to him in such a way is insulting. But they are already bound, in ways more intimate, more demanding, and frankly, more trying than those of an average couple.  
  
There is no one else for him, only Scully. She is his soulmate, even if she doesn’t believe in soulmates; he believes enough for the both of them, he always has. They are each other’s forever.  
  
But if he’s being honest with himself, he doesn’t think he has the right to visualize the two of them as a couple. Not after how he handled her reactions, her emotions, her instincts regarding Diana’s return. He’s been less than forthcoming with her ever since Antarctica, the very idea that she was prepared to kiss him back in his hallway scaring the hell out of him. Though he told himself he’d be more receptive to her feelings, he’s presently failed in every respect, apart from her near-death at the hands of Ritter.  
  
There he goes again, wildly falling in loving her when he thinks she has perished.  
  
He looks over at her form in the passenger seat, across the console. Apparently his mind isn’t the only entity of which he’s relinquished control. It’s as if he can’t take it any longer, the knowing intuitively but not really knowing, the collaborative resistance to ignore the discussion of all topics relating to their emotions. Especially this.  
  
“Scully, what are we doing?”  
  
She tilts her chin slightly, an acknowledgement of his question. “We’re looking for UFOs, Mulder. Lights in the sky? Surely, you’re familiar with the phenomena.” There’s an air of arrogance in her voice.  
  
But he’s not in the mood for her taunting, her mockery. “That’s not what I mean.”  
  
His eyes are drilling into her, desperately pleading her to turn to him, to make eye contact. She drops the binoculars to her lap and shifts her body away from the side window, but refuses to turn the full hundred and eighty degrees to come face-to-face with him. She resigns to dropping her chin to her chest, and inhales deeply.  
  
“Mulder…”  
  
“Why haven’t we talked about what happened in my hallway?”  
  
Her retort is almost too quick, like she anticipated his exact question and knew just how to rattle his cage. She deliberately chooses this moment to meet his eyes, to show him just how pained she is by his recent conduct. “Why did you dismiss me about Diana? Frankly, why didn’t you tell me about her in the first place?”  
  
And no matter how much displeasure he gets from his next remark, his seething has become too much to bear. If she’s planning on taking him down, he’s dragging her right along with him. They’re like this, the two of them; they know how to bring out the best in each other, but they also know precisely how to destroy each other. “Why are you still making all of this so personal?”  
  
He can feel her anger fuming, her tribulation intensifying, her heart breaking. He knows it’s a low blow, tapping into these emotions again. But he needs to hear her say it, what they both know, what she won’t admit.  
  
She gets out of the car intemperately, as if the interior had been suffocating, collapsing in on her, as if she could no longer control her intake of oxygen, like it had been poisoned, and needed to find a new source. He gives her a minute, but only a minute, before he’s opened his own door and slides onto the hood of the car, directly behind where she is standing on the gravel a few feet away. He’s thankful for the windless night, knowing her voice would be carried away if the circumstances permitted.  
  
“Mulder, if it comes as a surprise to you that despite how much I love our work, uncovering a potential government conspiracy about the possible existence of extraterrestrial life is no longer my top priority in life, save for the fact that perhaps I was taken by these men of the government and stripped of not only my memories and temporarily, my health, but also my chance at reproduction, then maybe I really should be questioning why I’m still here.”  
  
“Scully you know how I feel.” His voice is soft, gentle, considered, earnest.  
  
“Do I, Mulder?” She’s uncrossed her arms, letting down her armor, but the second she places her hands on her hips, she is squared for battle. A battle that neither of them will win. “If I remember correctly, you weren’t totally coherent when such admission transpired.” She turns, piercing him with her eyes, so blue, so extraordinary; he knows that shade of blue anywhere, though it’s too dark to see the colors thoroughly. But it is a blue that only belongs to her. “Besides, feelings are meaningless if you have no intention of acting on them.”  
  
“Pot, meet kettle.”  
  
She winces, and he knows this particular insult will run deep. But he tells himself that he loves her enough to call her on her inanity.  
  
“It’s worse because you won’t even admit that you love me, Scully.”  
  
“Would it really make much of a difference?” Her question lingers over him like a thundercloud, a downpour expected at any moment, and she walks back to the car and slides behind the wheel.  
  
He remembers the conversation they had during their drive through rural Nevada, her inconspicuous request for him to settle down and start a real life with her, although he didn’t disclose that he understood that her candid words were meant explicitly for him. _Don’t you ever just want to stop? Get out of the damn car? Settle down and live something approaching a normal life?  
_  
But he can’t. Not until he finds his sister. Because as much as he loves her, as much as he knows that she is his endgame, his forever, he fears that getting out of the car will mean that he’s given up on Samantha, that the past twenty-six years of his life will become meaningless. _As soon as it’s over, Scully, Dana, I promise._  
  
He doesn’t know how to voice this to her, and he doesn’t know why. He told himself that he wasn’t afraid of what they could become, what they slowly were becoming. But he hopes, on some instinctual level, that she already knows, that she understands, that she’ll wait.  
  
But she won’t wait forever, despite what she says, despite his aspiration. And as much as he doesn’t want to let her go, set her free, as much as his heart will shatter and he believes he will actually deteriorate to nothing, he’s starting to think it’s his only option.


	8. (7)

The rain is pounding against the windshield and the roof of the car. The sky is completely black, save for the occasional flashes of lightning. The roar of the thunder is deafening even over the sounds of the showers and the thud of the wiper blades. Yet when he glances over at her in the passenger seat, she is unfazed by all of it, the weather crisis happening right outside the confines of their vehicle. Visibility on the road is almost impossible. He thinks they should stop, find a motel and wait the storm out, at least until morning. But according to the map she’s pulled from the glove box, there isn’t anything around them for miles.

He doesn’t get the chance to sort out his options, however; the car makes the decision for him. It sputters, though the tank is about half full. But then he is just barely able to make out what looks like smoke materializing from the hood of the car, and he groans inwardly at the thought of having to check it in the middle of this weather. He figures that there’s a problem with the engine, and he considers leaving it at that. But after he’s pulled off to the side of the road and makes no indication that he’s getting out of the car, wiper blades still rapidly pulsating against the glass, she arches her eyebrow and purses her lips, as if daring him to brave the downpour, the wind, in order to check out the car.

He shoots her back a look of astonishment. He believes in lots of things, but the idea that his partner is asking him to pop the hood of their rental in the middle of what feels like a hurricane, except for the fact that it’s February and it’s freezing, to determine that yes, there is something wrong with the engine, while simultaneously causing more damage by allowing the rain to flood the entire mechanism, is preposterous. But still, he reaches behind him and grabs an umbrella from the back seat, sighing in her face so that she knows he’s not fond of the idea, but obliging her anyway.

Especially with the wind, the umbrella does little to deflect the storm from raging against him; he’s soaked the minute he opens the door. When he looks back at her through the driver’s-side window, he sees her brushing off some stray water droplets from her coat, courtesy of the wind. He opens the hood and lets the smoke out, turning away but not before some of it catches in his lungs, sending him into a coughing spell. He plugs his nose and holds his breath, wafting away the remaining smoke. From what he can tell, the engine most likely overheated. How, he’s not so sure, considering the current temperature, but he suspects that the coolant was either low or nonexistent.

He slams the hood closed, satisfied with his truly lack of assessment and desperate to get out of the rain, and observes her through the windshield. There’s not enough moonlight to completely offset the lack of visibility from the night and the rain, but he sees her pull her cell phone away from her ear, and he thinks she’s laughing. At him, most likely, not with him. He thinks he should be irritated that she’s laughing at his expense; but they’ve had so few things to laugh about as of late, he senses it’s in both of their best interests to let her have this moment.

He opens the car door and closes his umbrella, not bothering to shake off the water, quickly sliding into the passenger seat and shutting out the massacre of weather behind him, but not before the rain splatters against the steering wheel and dashboard. He huffs out a breath, coughing again in attempt to clear his lungs of the residual engine smoke. “I feel like I just inhaled burned rubber.”

“Mulder, you’re soaked.” He can hear a hint of a giggle under hear breath as she speaks.

“I don’t know if you noticed, Scully, but we’re kind of in the middle of a torrential downpour.”

He watches as she opens the glove compartment and fishes out some napkins, leftover from the various fast food establishments from which they’ve consumed meals she regards as “minimally passable as something edible” during this case; she’s been stuffing extra napkins in whatever car they happen to be in for as long as he can remember, though, she likes to be prepared for disaster. She hands him a stack and uses the remaining handful to absorb the water from his coat. “I called AAA. Surprisingly, cell service is still attainable. They said it will probably take someone three hours to get to us. You know, because of the storm.”  
  
He doesn’t see how the thin napkins are going to rid him of the water that has drenched his figure, but he humors her by rubbing the ones that she gave him through his hair. He’s frustrated at the wait time for someone to help them, but he follows suit in keeping their banter lighthearted. “Gee, I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t want to come out in this lovely weather.”

“Apparently we’re the only ones foolish enough.”

He checks his hair in the rearview mirror, resigning at its now spiked appearance. “Yeah, well, we’re foolish about a lot of things.”

She sobers instantly, and he regrets his words the second her face changes, her fingertips frozen on his forearm, stopped while in the process of sponging up the drops of rain.

“Mulder, if you’re referring to the other night…” She trails off, and he imagines that she is internalizing, equipped for battle, ready to justify their change in relationship. She is always prepared, as evidence of the napkins remind him.

The other night. Singular. They have slept together exactly twice, though not on the same night: the first, an act of desperation, grief-stricken on his part seeking familiarity and comfort after the loss of his mother, thanking her for slicing open the woman who gave him life and acknowledging that it is she that gives him life now; the second after meeting the walk-in, the soul of a sister who died in 1979, the need for release subjecting both his emotions and their coupling. When he envisioned finally embarking in a sexual relationship with her, he did not picture either scenario they faced as the ideal. He doesn’t want her to think that that sleeping with her was a mistake, because, god, it was everything he’d ever wanted and more; though he can’t help but reflect that maybe the circumstances were wrong, that the timing was off and the damage irreparable. And now, with her remark, he’s curious about which night she may be regretting, if her doubts are the same as his.

When he finally finds his voice, he concludes it’s the softest, the quietest he’s ever verbalized anything. “Scully, I don’t regret either time. But… I think… maybe, we weren’t ready.” He can’t look her in the eye, self-reproach indisputable.   
  
She mimics the quiet inflection apparent in his voice. “We weren’t ready?”  
  
“Or I wasn’t ready, I don’t know. It’s my fault. I took advantage of you, your comfort. You were just trying to be a friend, to help me grieve over my mother, to help me sort my emotions about my sister. And I… I pounced on you, essentially. And I think maybe it was a bad idea.”  
  
“Sleeping with me was a bad idea.” She says it as a statement, not a question. She huffs out a breath and whispers her shock, a muttered “wow” escaping her lips, turning her head to watch the trees, rustling in the wind. His heart breaks.

“Scully…”  
  
“You say you don’t regret it, but it sounds like you do. I don’t know whether to be embarrassed or furious. Did it ever occur to you that I might have feelings on this matter, too? Or are you really that selfish?” Her voice has risen almost to the point of anger. She could almost be shouting at him, but she’s not. And that concerns him.

But he deserves her harsh words and her harsh tone. He knows that she loves him, and the idea that she quite possibly is in love with him, as well, as crossed his mind. And in saying those things, he is breaking the heart of the only person who loves him. But he has to, because he has deemed himself unworthy of her, he has to set her free.

He sighs and drops his head to his chin. “Scully, I’ve come to realize, especially now, that I’m never going to be enough for you. I’m too emotionally damaged to give you some semblance of a normal life, and furthermore, I don’t deserve any of it. You, on the other hand, god Scully, you deserve everything, so much more than I could possibly offer.”

She pauses, considering his words, and it occurs to him that maybe she’ll agree, that she’ll walk away from whatever it is they’re trying to salvage. The thought scares him more than he wants it to, despite telling himself that it is probably for the best. Her leaving may actually be the thing that does him in.

“Mulder,” she starts, and her voice is a whisper, spoken so softly that it is almost indistinguishable from the rain pelting against the car, “if I wanted more than you have to offer, I would have left years ago.” She perks a bit, the cadence of her words reflecting a composition, crescendoing as she gains her confidence. “The Bureau presented me with an out when they wanted to transfer me to Utah and I didn’t take it. I was ready to quit because if I wasn’t going to be with you, I didn’t want any part of what it would entail. It’s you and me, Mulder. That’s what I want. Always.”

“Is this your way of telling you you love me, Scully?”  
  
She’s silent for a beat, and he notices, but she recovers quickly. “Of course I love you, Mulder. And as much as I love our work and the excitement it brings to our lives, I can guarantee I wouldn’t still be here if you weren’t a part of it.”

He’s gaping at her, eyes wide as a bug, jaw slacked and mouth hanging slightly open. Fox Mulder, who believes in Bigfoot and aliens and government conspiracies, has been confounded twice tonight by the requests and admissions from his enigmatic partner, contemplating their sincerity, their authenticity, though he knows to expect nothing less from her.

The rain has lightened and the wind has slowed, though the storm still persists. She has just admitted to him that she loves him, and it is greater than any high he has ever experienced. She loves him. He loves her. They have both admitted it. This is it.

He gets out of the car, disregarding the storm, and runs around to the passenger side of their car. He opens her door and drags her out into the rain, a perplexed look crossing her face. She’s drenched as soon as her feet hit the pavement, hair plastered to her face, her clothes dripping wet and leaves sticking to her coat. Still, she is beautiful.

“Mulder, wha-”  
  
“Rain, Scully!” They have to shout in order to hear each other over the wind, the rain making contact with the road.  
  
“Yes, I see that, Mulder, but why…”  
  
“Do you remember our first case together, when we were standing in the cemetery and it was raining?” He pushes strands of hair out of her eyes, struggling against the wind to tuck them behind her ear. “Maybe a little bit harder than this, it was actually probably raining just as hard a few minutes ago…”

“Mulder, your point?”  
  
“I wanted to kiss you that night. In the rain.”

“No you didn’t.”

“Swear. You thought I was crazy, but you listened to me anyway. You accepted that maybe I was right about what was happening with those kids. You accepted me. And you were adorable. And I almost kissed you.”

She reaches up and rubs her thumb across his cheekbone, both of them smiling, almost in disbelief. But it’s not so unfathomable, this moment, this confirmation. Regardless of how they’ve reached this juncture, they’re here.

“For the record, I gave up the idea of a normal life the second you told me we were going to Oregon, not ten minutes after meeting you.”

He grabs her face in his hands and kisses her, ignoring the weight of their saturated clothes and the frigid air that accompanies the wind. He’s at a loss for words at how genuine and natural this feels; it’s more intense and passionate than the one he gave her on New Year’s, but not as desperate and pleading and broken as the kisses that accompanied their copulation. It is, by his definition their real first kiss. A kiss, rain-soaked, with promise and commitment, soulmates finally finding their way.

He has never known a happiness like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My headcanon for when they first slept together changes CONSTANTLY but Sein und Zeit/Closure is what I’m leaning towards at the moment.


	9. (8)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m ignoring canon for a hot second. Mulder was not abducted in May of 2000. I’m going to go with late-September. Because women aren’t pregnant for over a year. Nope, not in this universe.

It took a lot of convincing to get her out of the house. She put up protests, claiming that she should be resting, per doctor’s orders. But she refused to stay in bed, roaming from room to room; she argued that she was nesting, that there was still so much to do to prep for the baby. But the crib was up, the room painted, onesies laundered. A stuffed alien that he had bought slouched in the rocker, and she had given him this look when he brought it over that said “are you kidding me?” But it looked like it belonged, even color-coded with the rest of the décor, so there it sat, and he was delighted that she hadn’t removed it.

She was fully nested, but still, she was refusing to rest.

He suggested that they go for a drive, somewhere away from D.C., somewhere where they could find some peace, clear their heads, where they wouldn’t have to think. _But truthfully, somewhere,_ he thought, _where we can’t ignore each other_.

He manages to get her in the car, even after her initial resistance and relentless hesitation. He steers the car west, toward Shenandoah National Park, far enough away that the roar and the lights of the city have dissipated, but close enough to civilization that were something to happen, they wouldn’t be endangering themselves.

So he drives, stolen glances at her disrupt his concentration from the road. But he can’t help but be amazed; over eight months pregnant, he guesses, and she’s still beautiful, radiant even. One hand clutches the bottom of her stomach while the other sprawls across the top of her belly. He thinks she may be in pain, that something is wrong with either her or the baby, especially after the partial abruption, but when he looks up at her face, it is tranquil; her eyes are closed and she has a barely-there smile. He looks at her and he thinks of forever, of home.

The radio is turned down low, but he can hear the undertones of “Burning Love” emitting through the speakers. He has the urge to turn it up, to serenade her, to introduce the kid to Elvis, but she looks so peaceful, a look of serenity he has yet to see since before he was taken, so he decides to leave it, to let the hum of the music lull them toward their destination.

The kid. The unborn child in Scully’s womb. His kid? He’s fairly certain, given how far along he suspects she is. But they’ve been avoiding the subject, a lot of subjects, really, ever since he returned. He knows neither of them need the added stress that will surround these looming conversations, with her complicated pregnancy and his undoubted post-traumatic stress. But they have become necessary, and he’s convinced himself that he’s ready to talk. Even if he doesn’t fully believe he’s ready, and even though he’s not entirely sure he’ll like the answers, they owe each other an open and honest conversation. They worked so hard to get to that point before, and he loves her too much to let all their unspoken thoughts drive a wedge between them yet again. No, not this time. He is taking her to neutral ground, a safe place to talk.

He finds a lookout spot, surprised that it’s completely unoccupied despite the sun having just set, and pulls the car to the side of the road. He thinks of their first year as partners when he told her, on a stakeout, how much he loved sunsets and the dark blue color of the sky as nightfall approaches. This view, this sky is exactly what he had in mind when he explained his favorite color to her.

He turns the key in the ignition and kills the engine, unfastening his seatbelt so he can turn his attention toward her. “Scully, I’m assuming that as a sailor’s daughter, you know your way around the sky.”  
  
“You mean, I know my constellations?” She smirks a little, and he knows that she knows exactly what he means.

He flails his arms out, asking her to embark her knowledge. He loves to watch her talk; he’s fascinated by the way she uses her whole body to tell a story, the way her face embodies every ounce of emotion, how her hands are constantly moving, how she licks her lips when she catches a breath or recollects her thoughts. After years of studying her, in practically every situation imaginable, he can determine exactly what she’s feeling by the arc of her eyebrow and the curve of her lips alone.

“Mulder, you didn’t drive us almost two hours away from the comfort of my apartment, not to mention my bathroom, just to have me point out constellations, did you?” That’s the other thing he’s learned about Scully over the years: She can, and will, call his bluff almost instantaneously. He thinks she knows him better than he knows himself.

“I’ll help you balance if you have to pee.” He’s become a master at using humor as a defense mechanism, to subtly deter the subject of a conversation from its intention. Except he doesn’t want that to be the case this time. His defenses are on autopilot; he has to learn how to abandon his guard around her. But, then again, who are they without a little tug-of-war before getting to the point?

“Mulder…”

“Sorry, Scully.” He offers a slight chuckle, a temporary ceasefire. They’re both quiet and he’s turned his body back toward the front windshield, watching as the final traces of sunset disappear beyond the horizon, gazing in awe at the twinkling stars above them.

“Actually that’s why I brought you out here. To tell you I’m sorry.” He’s opening the floodgates, his nerves abandoned, his boldness escalating. “For everything you went through. You know, when I was…” He can’t even bring himself to say it. _Dead_. Except not really, but being underground for three months after being god knows where for three months prior doesn’t really seem like living to him. “And for how I’ve behaved the past few weeks. For not being supportive of you when clearly…” He can feel himself getting worked up, his composure breaking, his self-loathing igniting.

She pries his white-knuckled hands from the steering wheel, clenching her left hand in his right, and he wraps his other hand around their entwined fingers. He chances the opportunity for eye contact; he is both disappointed and relieved when he finds her eyes fixed to the space next to their joined hands.

“Mulder you’ve experienced unimaginable trauma. I can’t fault you for how you’ve coped with everything you’ve gone through and then… coming back and having your world seemingly upside down.” She almost mumbles her next words, but it’s just them and an expanse of starlight, so he hears her perfectly, his heart crumbling right alongside hers. “I’m sure you must feel like everyone’s moved on without you.” He goes to brush a stray tear from her cheek, but the side of her thumb wipes it away before he gets the chance.

“I can’t imagine it was easy for you, either, Scully. My memory… I get flashes, sometimes, of what seems like memories of procedures they did, but that’s all. You, though, I’m sure you remember a lot more of those six months.” He wishes he could tell her more, that he could remember exactly what he experienced. But he thinks maybe most of those memories have been repressed subconsciously. He understands now what her missing time must have been like; he can empathize with her completely.

“It was horrible,” she whispers with a shaky voice, tears threatening to break loose again. The grip she has on his hand intensifies, and he feels a slight crushing pain, but he doesn’t care; it’s worth it, just to be touching her again. “I spent every waking second looking for you. And then, I _buried_ you. I was pregnant and alone and I buried my baby’s…” She trails off and his anxiety heightens. She was so close to confirming the most important question he’s had since he returned.

“Scully, when are you due?” He didn’t intend to ask her outright, but regardless of whether or not his inclinations are wrong, he needs her to rip off the band-aid. He’s restless, and he’s finally ready for him to tell her.

“I have five weeks to go.” Thirty-five weeks pregnant. _Thirty-five weeks ago was…_ he quickly does some mental math, _mid-August_. Their caseload was heavy in August, and they spent a lot of time on the road, except for when he was in possession of the jinniyah. _The jinniyah. Three wishes. Beer and “Caddyshack”. “I’m fairly happy.” Her pinned underneath him on his couch. Not leaving his bed that entire weekend except to shower and retrieve food from the delivery man. Oh._

“Scully, how did this happen?”

“Are you looking for the exact moment, Mulder?” The apprehension in her voice softens, mirroring the relief and excitement he’s feeling. “Surely, I don’t have to tell you about the birds and the bees. You passed health in high school, right?”

“No I know… _that_ … but I, you thought, _we_ thought this was impossible.”

“I’ve run every test imaginable, Mulder, trust me, because I was so afraid. I knew in my heart where this baby came from, and the tests confirmed it. But after everything we’ve seen, after everything that’s happened to me, I had to be sure…”

“But how?”

“All I can think is that something must have happened when I was in Africa. I mean, those fish, I told you how they came back to life, what Dr. Barnes suspected. Who’s to say my fertility wasn’t restored by my contact with the craft?”

“Do you really think that’s what happened, Scully?” He’s hoping he doesn’t come off as condescending, because his question is earnest, genuine. The spontaneous rejuvenation of her ova, even if it was just one, seems unlikely. But he is a man who wants to believe, and more than anything, he wants to believe that they created a life, this life, out of mutual, unrelenting love.

“No,” she whispers, “but I can’t come up with any other explanation.”

“Except for a miracle.”

She looks up at him, eyes wide and shimmering, meeting for the first time since he began apologizing. _Yes, Scully, I remember what I told you after the IVF failed_. She lets out a tiny laugh and smiles softly, small tears falling softly from her eyes, happy tears.

“So, since you ran all the tests, I’ve gotta know.” Her forehead crinkles and her eyebrows shoot up, tongue peeking out ever-so-slightly in anticipation of his question. “Boy, or girl?”

She huffs out a single laugh again and closes her eyes, grinning wide enough that the top of her gums peek out between her lips. He loves this smile, with her soft eyes and the lines that form from her cheeks to her chin. It’s a real Dana Scully smile, and lately, it’s been reserved just for him.

“Boy. But I haven’t told anyone else, not even my mother. So you’re sworn to secrecy.”

He leans over the center console and captures her lips between his, not chaste but not hungrily either. Like they’ve been kissing every day for their entire lives, like they will continue to kiss every day for the remainder of their lives. He pushes the errant strands of hair off her face and kisses away the tears at the tops of her cheeks, savoring their salty flavor. She tastes like safety, like comfort. Though the stars in the night sky, forgotten in their confessions despite his initial desire to admire, are bright, she is more luminous in her honesty, the sheer love they have for each other as clear and intense as ever.

He turns the car back on and puts it in drive, turning it around to head back home; he realizes that home isn’t necessarily his apartment, but rather wherever she is. He grabs her hand from her lap, laces their fingers together and strokes her thumb. As he drives, he focuses on the radio again, just in time to hear the end of “Love Me Tender” and blesses whatever station decided to dedicate the entire evening to the King. He turns it up and sings to her, slightly off-key, but more on-tune than her rendition of “Joy to the World.”

“Love me tender,  
Love me true,  
All my dreams fulfilled.  
For my darlin I love you,  
And I always will.”

He hopes that his son, their son, will know how much he loves her, the love that Elvis sang about. After all the trials and tribulations, she remains his constant; he hopes he gets to experience forever with her.


	10. (9)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slightly NSFW. Also did Chris Carter realize it takes roughly 26 hours to drive from Virginia to New Mexico?? Probably not.

When he tells her where they were going, he thinks she’ll demand that he stop the car and let her out. He thinks she’ll tell him he is making a big mistake, that they’re more likely to be found if they don’t leave immediately. But she doesn’t say any of those things; she just simply slips her hand across the cupholders and squeezes his thigh, her eyes pleading for safety but also wholly full of trust, the quick nod of her head undemanding in every possible way. He does not deserve her.

They stop briefly on the side of a road just outside of Fredericksburg so he can relieve himself and change out of the jumpsuit. She climbs behind the wheel and drives through the night while he sleeps, the moon guiding her through roads unknown. When he wakes, no longer feeling the motion of the car soothe his too-peaceful slumber, he feels guilty. He’s disoriented when he realizes the car is no longer moving, panicked when he opens his eyes to an empty driver’s seat, then beyond reassured as he turns in his seat to see her pumping gas into the tank of their SUV. The back window is rolled down, she is not masqueraded by tinted glass. She looks in his direction, sensing his stirring movements, roused from his exhaustion, and smiles at him, softly, but he is beyond encouraged by the love behind it.

He offers to drive this next leg of their escape, and she relinquishes the keys willingly. The sun is barely starting to rise behind them as they approach Knoxville, Tennessee. He realizes that it will take them longer to reach New Mexico than the twenty-four hours Kersh had advised as their timetable to flee the country, which means he’s just resigned them to a life on the run. The fear that he suppressed when they first executed their getaway creeps closer to the surface, and he prays that she won’t resent him.

About twenty minutes outside of Knoxville, he pulls off the I-40, still relatively deserted given the morning hour. He turns the car off, inhaling and exhaling deeply, calming his intrepid spirit out of necessity to avoid a full-blown panic attack. He can feel the blood pumping from his heart to his brain.

“Mulder, we can’t stop, we need to keep moving.” Scully advises hastily, choking out the words as if she is emptying, purging them from her essence. Her eyes are wide, confused, shimmering with imminent tears, even, and for the first time since they fled the USMC base, she looks afraid. Maybe she’s realized the full extent of the life that he’s propelling them into.

He whispers her name, generating implacable eye contact, and it’s all it takes. Her resolve breaks, and he feels the yearning inside him crack, an almost animal instinct of desire flooding his system. They grab each others’ faces, lips colliding and tongues tangling and teeth clinking, lustful impulses taking control.

The middle row of seats of a Ford Expedition is not the most ideal location to engage in acts of coitus, nor is it a place to gracefully clamber over, obstacles between the two front seats forestalling their copulating; he imagines Scully will have bruises covering her legs from the force of which she threw herself over the console and into the back seat. But after a year apart, their need is desperate, the ache painful, suddenly unavoidable. And these particular seats are certainly roomier, he reasons, than the only other time he’s had sex in a car, the night he lost his virginity in the back of his high school prom date’s Volvo.

It’s quick and urgent, they can’t even manage to get their pants all the way off, fumbling with buttons and layers, _so many layers_ he thinks. The only sounds are of heavy panting and, as they approach climax, guttural cries of pleasure. They’re both sobbing as they come down from their release, tears falling from a much anticipated reunion and for fear that, were they to be caught, this could possibly be the last time. Every time feels like their last time lately, and he’s sure that feeling won’t go away anytime soon.

Her arms are around his neck, clutching him so hard that she’s seemingly glued to his chest. Sweat trickles down their bodies, sopping through their shirts; their breathing is labored and their hearts are racing. The insides of her thighs are sticky and he just tucks himself back into his briefs, zipping up his jeans, their clothes wrinkled, her hair rumpled with strands plastered to her face. The car reeks, the scent of sex permeating the interior, windows fogged. They, too, smell sweaty, tangy, dirty, like they’d just run a mile a full sprint with the sun beaming down on them, but sweeter. Neither of them care.

Their lips meet one last time, passionate, a promise of continuation, a confirmation of perpetuity. The shuddering of their bodies from both their orgasms and the tears they’ve shed subside. Then, as if it had never happened, they untangle from each other and climb back over the center console, resuming their positions in the front seats of the car. He turns the engine back on, and they make their way through Tennessee.

It’s the most uncertain their future has ever been. He thinks of all the things they’ve survived: Repeated division closures, forced separations and mundane assignments. Abductions. Government-engineered diseases and viruses. Monsters. The evil of man himself. Mortality, both of their own and of their most cherished loved ones. The loss of two children.

_Yes, two_ , he thinks; he loved Emily because she was Scully’s, and had she lived, had Scully been able to take her home, to raise her, he would have been there every step of the way. That little girl would have been his just as much as she was hers. And their son, though he is out there, alive and thriving, potentially taking his tentative first steps, the baby he knew for roughly seventy-two hours, is no longer theirs. A reality that perforates his heart at every thought.

But even through all of the vial, despicable horrors they have faced, there was no complete, overwhelming sense of constant terror, utmost fear. Even when they were lost, without the other, of the mindset that their circumstances were going to swallow them whole, there was someone else to guide them, to help them find their way back to each other. Now, they are alone, left to their own devices. Finally the two of them against everyone and everything, and he can’t fathom how they’ll manage, even though the two of them together, at last, is all he’s ever wanted. He’s hesitant to assume they’ll survive their new lives as fugitives, the impending apocalypse with its designated date.

There are only two things, now, that give him hope, hope that though they are entering uncharted territory to the extreme, they will pull through this latest occurrence of precariousness: They always seem to survive whatever life throws at them, and they are always together, uniting and reuniting. Constants. Touchstones. One-in-five-billions.

He knows now that he has always loved her, that she has always loved him, in some capacity or another. They’ve continued fighting this fight because they want their chance at happiness, eternal bliss, forever. He wonders if maybe it’s not written in their stars. But he thinks of all the things in his life that he’s lost or let go; nothing else in his life has ever merited holding onto with such a fervor. Even with Samantha, he had been willing to give up. But Scully, Scully is his source of life, his North Star. She is worth everything and more.

For now, he drives and she sleeps. They will have to stop and eat something, and he considers finding a motel once they near the border of Arkansas and Oklahoma, just so they can at least sleep horizontally for a few hours. All too soon, he’ll be obliged to tell her the truth he’s discovered, a truth he so desperately is reluctant to confirm.

They’ll find a way to make this new installment of their journey sustainable. They always have, and they always will.


	11. (On the Run)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus fic?

They’re lying in the back of a beaten-down Ford Expedition, both rows of seats down, because it’s the only way he can fit. The SUV is much like the one they made off with after busting him out of prison, only it’s more than two years later, and this one is green, older. It’s their fourth car in as many months, constantly trading vehicles in out of fear, danger of being found. But it’s been more than two years. If they were being looked for, actively pursued, they should have been found by now. They’ve run out of hiding spaces.

Which is why they’re pulled off to the side of a deserted California freeway. It sounds like an oxymoron, deserted and California freeway. But they’ve become masters at hiding even in the busiest of places, though the neglected domains of the country leave them feeling less tense. The folded-down seats, which give them room to sleep, are layered with their sleeping bags as padding, a thin blanket covering both of them, another one piled in a heap at his feet. Despite it not being the most comfortable of sleeping arrangements, there are worse places where they have slept.

Her head is on his bare chest and his fingertips are stroking her arm, the featherlight touch the only thing that seems familiar, even after being at this for as long as they have. 891 days. 21,384 hours. He’s not sure why he’s kept count. He couldn’t tell you what’s happened during each of those 891 days. Only that she was right there with him. And though the days have blurred together, he still counts each sunrise and sunset. Another day, together.

His fingers trace up her arm, past her shoulder, lightly grazing her face, his thumb mapping the freckles, committing their pattern to memory, eventually tangling themselves in her hair. He rubs her temple, a “hm” subconsciously emitting from her throat as his fingers continue their dance; his touch helps her wind down, lulling her to sleep. The crickets chirp and the moon is high in the sky. The windows are slightly cracked, allowing a comfortable, cool night breeze to filter through the car, ridding the sticky, hot air that was sealed, trapped from the afternoon’s sun.

They haven’t had a lot of good days, lately. They’ve been fighting, over everything, particularly how to manage with their remaining funds, which have almost been exhausted. He wanted to tap into their savings, which have been untouched for the past 891 days, but she claimed that it was still unsafe, despite his insistence that no one is really looking for them anymore. An admission from her regarding their fugitive status would be admitting that they have been forgotten, and he knows that she won’t accept that. She cannot fathom that she has suffered these past few years simply to have been neglected, in mind and effort, by the people who sought to ruin, obliterate, their lives. Their quest could not have been disregarded that easily.

Mulder can believe it, though. Scully has always had more faith than he has.

They’ve fought over where to sleep, Scully reasoning that motels were a waste, that they have enough room in the back of their car to sprawl out in slumber, Mulder arguing that his size doesn’t adhere to her sprawling qualifications and therefore the back of the car is not ideal to spend all their nights. He lost out on that one, despite his attempts to lobby for a softer surface to sleep on; he was tired of arguing with her. They fought over her finding a job, waiting tables at a run-down diner or running the cash register at a convenience store, just to buy the basics, like toothpaste and tampons. He claimed that employment of any kind would mean settling down, and they needed to keep moving. She threw his earlier argument about no one searching for them anymore back in his face, that it wouldn’t matter where they were anymore. He almost left her in Buttonwillow.

Their worst fight was about William, two days ago, after stumbling across a few remaining Halloween costumes when they stopped at Walgreens for bottled water. She thumbed through the firefighter jumpsuits and misty green scrubs, long princess dresses equipped with accessories. She found a 3T Spiderman costume and pulled it off the rack, smoothing where the foot had been slightly folded, smashed between the wall and the other costumes. “This is how big he would be now,” she had whispered to herself. But he had been right there, just behind her mumbling, “yeah, but we’ll never know,” in response. She had gasped and turned around in surprise, but after seeing the resentment in his expression, and not at his own statement, her own indignation overwhelmed her and she threw the costume in his face, storming out of the store. Their hostility and anger only escalated from there. He’s pretty sure a bystander almost called the police after witnessing their shouting match in the parking lot.

The night is forgiving, however. Daylight reveals their frustration, with each other and their world. It lays bare their scars and aging, worry lines permanently etched into their foreheads. It builds up their walls and they shut each other out. But night, night brings them a fresh start, a sense of comfort and familiarity, after spending so much of their time cloaked in darkness, in the shadows. At night, they can face each other. They can remember all that they used to love, about their former lives, about each other. About themselves.

At night, they are vulnerable, but tender. They allow themselves to be, because they have to.

He never imagined it would be this hard to love her. He thought that if they could survive their partnership, where they were constantly at odds, but bounded by the understanding that they were coming from a place of respect, of affection, then the two of them against the world would only strengthen their bond. But the work had always been their outlet for debate. Now, they have nothing, only each other off which to spar. He never expected for something, someone so right to feel so wrong. And though he recognizes how unhealthy their anger is, how their highs and lows come in overpowering waves, the thought of a life without her is incomprehensible, unfeasible. She is his Achilles’ heel.

He feels his eyelids getting heavier, drained from their constant relocation. He places a final kiss on her forehead, a surrendering “thank you” for all that she has endured because of him. He’s starting to think she might be right, about needing to settle down, about needing to find stability. He’s running them into the ground. As sleep creeps to the forefront, succumbing to unconsciousness, he pictures them on a rickety porch swing, surrounded by tall grass, encompassed in the warmth of a home shielding them from frigid autumn air. He wants to find this place and take her there.


	12. (IWTB)

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again.”

He can hear the annoyance in the tone of her voice, the fact that they’re willingly driving through a snowstorm in the middle of the night because of a potential lead. On a case that they’re not even officially assigned to. Because they no longer work for the FBI.

She’s reminded him of that last detail so often over the past few days that it’s become white noise to his ears. _No longer with the FBI_. That may be the case, and it has been for years, but he still feels an obligation. When someone needs help, he comes to their rescue. He can’t help that it’s in his nature, drawn to the defenseless like a moth to a flame. And he knows she knows it; once he sets his mind to something, anything, he can’t control himself, he goes all in. And this, finding a missing woman, with whom he has no connection, for an agency that more than once tried to destroy his life, is no exception.

Isolation had been hard on him. He knew it was necessary, more for her safety because at some point, he no longer gave a damn about whether or not they found him. It wasn’t fair, though, that she had been cleared by the FBI, no longer a person of interest, not long after they settled into their home. Their unexpected visit from Skinner at the house to tell her almost scared them, her, back into a life of fake IDs and scratchy motel sheets, but Skinner assured that no one else knew where they, he, were. Skinner set up a PO box for them, helped Scully get back into medicine, get her life back, essentially. And then, there was him.

He hated being cooped up in the house all day, still feeling the sting, almost of rejection, of remaining a recluse while she got to move on with the world. But he found things to occupy his time. He rekindled his love for cooking, of which Scully reaped the benefits. When she’d saved up enough, they installed cable and internet, and he spent some time scrolling through UFO forums, finding stories that captivated him the way X-files used to, especially when daytime television became too over-the-top. He stayed active by working on the house. Installing the gate, tightening the plumbing, fixing a loose shingle on the roof here and there, chopping lumber in the backyard for them to use in the fireplace. Scully reaped those benefits, too, his physique healthier and toner than it had ever been.

But he didn’t ever really venture much further than their property. Scully was the one that picked things up for him at the hardware store, or did the grocery shopping, all on her way home from the hospital. She sometimes went days without coming home because of her shifts; on those days, he thought he was slowly losing his mind, her reappearance at the end of the day often the only thing that truly kept him going. Some days he hated her, too, for abandoning him, for staying at the hospital. Logically, he knew that it wasn’t reasonable for him to be so angry with her for going to work, having means to support them. But logic was never his forte, anyway.

So when the request from the FBI for his assistance came, he masked his initial excitement with disinterest, feigning his need to be involved with something important again, because he didn’t want her to think this new normal they had created wasn’t enough for him. He thought that if he could convince her to go with him, to be a part of this alongside him, that she, too, would remember what it felt like, discovering the mysteries of the unsolved, the rush of following a lead. That she would be supportive of his immersion back into the real world, no longer a wanted fugitive. Apparently, he had been wrong.

Instead, she sits begrudgingly behind the wheel, acting as his chauffeur as they make their way to the site Father Joe claims to sense something that will help further the investigation. But he thinks she’s only following him out here seemingly out of a loyalty for him, not to the truth. And it makes him furious, because he thought he knew her better than this.

It isn’t just that she isn’t interested in this case, but he gets the feeling that she wants nothing to do with anything even remotely resembling an X-file. _This isn’t my life anymore_. Truthfully, it wasn’t his life anymore, either, but he refused to see the harm in dipping their toes back into the waters of the unexplained. There was something more to this that she was reluctant to tell him, presumably that she thinks being involved with this _is_ harmful, and it pisses him off. They rarely kept things from each other anymore, and he can’t understand why she wants to start back up now.

So he delves himself further into this case. To piss _her_ off? Because he’s genuinely curious about Father Joe’s visions? He once thought his motives to be clear, but frustration has perplexing power of clouding his judgments. All this time, and no one can get inside his head, make him question anything and everything, like she does.

Closing his eyes, he refocuses the objectives of his involvement. It’s not simply just the paranormal elements of the case that have drawn him in. Nor is it just fulfilling a need for freedom, to be more than half a mile from their home. Surely, he thinks she realizes that by now.

It’s because every time he closes his eyes, Monica Bannan’s picture haunts him.

When he sees the picture, he thinks of Samantha. How the missing woman’s waved hair matched Samantha’s whenever it wasn’t in braids. How the two of them would be the same age, if Samantha were still alive. How the details surrounding their disappearances are mysterious, eerie. Those similarities are obvious, and he knows that she will call him on it.

What evades her, at least he hopes, is how much Monica Bannan reminds him of _her_. It’s not the red hair and the blue eyes, though those physical features are not lost on him, in spite of every other difference in their appearances. No, this case, a missing FBI agent, vanished with fairly little trace, is all too familiar. He is reminded of her own disappearances, of how he couldn’t save her. When Duane Barry took her to Skyland Mountain, when the chip in her neck called her Ruskin Dam. He thinks that if he can find this missing FBI woman, he can right all the times he couldn’t find Scully.

This is why he feels the need to drown himself in locating this woman. He wants to prove, both to her and to himself, that he can save someone, especially after he’s failed so many others.

And maybe, just maybe, he can get some part of his old life back. Just as Scully has.

Staring out the passenger window, ignoring her comment so as to not pick a fight, the snow falling furiously with the wind, he thinks of how good it feels to be wanted, to be a part of something bigger than himself. And he doesn’t seem to care that right now, it isn’t Scully that wants him.

This feels different, though, somehow, compared to all the other times they’ve looked for lost souls in the dark. The potential for destruction, both of the only constant aspect of his life, which has weathered for more than fifteen years, and of himself, seems to be at an all-time high. A bomb with a short fuse, waiting to go off; a constant buzzing, a hum that he’s just noticed and if he hears any longer, he fears he’ll snap. If they keep this up, the effects could be disastrous, their promises to each other dissipating with the wind, evaporating into nothingness. But if they fight this out, he’s afraid that one of them may end up resenting the other.

He thinks he’s found himself at a crossroads: Lose himself and keep Scully, or lose Scully and keep himself. He doesn’t know which possibility scares him more.


	13. (Pre-Revival)

**(Pre-Revival)**

Mid-morning on the two-lane road that leads to and from the house is probably the busiest it ever gets, unless there is an accident or a car refusing to go faster than the speed limit. Cars rarely go the opposite direction, toward the house, during this time of day; “traffic,” if he can even call it that, flowing out toward the bigger cities, toward workplaces and apartments. Toward his doctor, or doctors, rather. Both the one he’s planning on seeing today for their scheduled appointment, the second of many, he anticipates, and the one he’s planning on talking about but hasn’t seen in almost four weeks.

Fate, as it turns out, is a funny thing. And today, it appears to materialize in the form of a redhead behind the wheel of an SUV.

He’s thankful that there happens to be a car crawling along the road in front of him, otherwise he probably would have missed her. He slows even further, almost to a complete stop. He flashes his headlights at the car in the oncoming lane, hoping she won’t misinterpret his signal. Hoping she realizes that it’s him.

Her car appears to be slowing down, and once it seems as if she’s registered his truck on the other side of the road, he rolls down his window. He deeply inhales and exhales, composing himself, to make it appear as though he was expecting her, anything to dissuade the excitement and fear at the prospect of seeing her. Her window is down by the time the hood of her car meets his, and, to his relief, she stops, actually puts her car in park.

“Mulder?”

“Sup, Doc?” He puts on a slight façade, calm, casual, lackadaisical; in truth, he’s nervous as hell, and he doesn’t know what to make of his reaction. He’s thankful that his sunglasses conceal his eyes, because one look at them would tell her how uneasy he feels right now. He attempts to control the pitch of his voice. “What brings you out to these neck-of-the-woods?” 

“I was coming to see you, actually.”

This surprises him, considering they’ve been ignoring each other’s calls lately. “I have an appointment.”

That perfect eyebrow of hers arches so high he thinks it may crawl off her face. “An appointment?”

A car honks behind him. He sticks his hand out the window and over the roof of the car, motioning for the car to go around him. He turns back to her once the car has passed.

“Gotta be mentally sound again if I want to win you back, right?” Though he chuckles, he’s completely straightforward. His heart stops for a minute when she faintly recoils.

Her hands are still on the steering wheel, and she is looking in her lap. “Mulder…”

“Relax, Scully, I’m kidding.” He’s not, though. If she suspects otherwise, she doesn’t give any indication. He wonders when they stopped being able to read each other.

She sighs, shakily, smooths what he imagines are imaginary wrinkles from her skirt. She’s wearing the navy blazer-skirt combination that she always wore whenever she had meetings at the hospital, the one that perfectly shapes her ass, which he tells her every time she wears it. It’s probably his favorite thing she owns. He wonders if she did this on purpose.

“Have you had any reactions to the medication?” This is her backhanded way of asking if he’s actually taking it, or if he’s ignoring medical advice now from two different doctors. He wants to get out of the car, shake her, tell her to stop being so cautious with him. But neither of them knows where they stand with the other at the moment, they have to play it safe.

“So far, so good. And, as you can see, I’ve actually made it out of the house.”

“Because you had to, or because you wanted to?” It stings, but she’s right. He remembers how he got here in the first place.

He was reluctant, at first, to see a doctor. To admit that he needed help, someone to drag him back to reality. It clearly wasn’t going to be her, it couldn’t be her, he’s realized. Truthfully, it had to be his decision, to get better, to want to be better. When she left, at first, he didn’t even register what her absence meant, what it’s intention was. When he finally found the note she left, much, much later after she left, with only a phone number for a therapist, he considered drinking himself into oblivion. He didn’t quite make it to oblivion, but he got damn near it, and he hated every second of it. He called the number the next day.

He’s seen her twice, in the three months since she left. The first was an accident on his part, running into her on his way back from the bathroom while she went to their room to get the remainder of her clothes. She looked startled to see him outside of his office, and he assumed she would be able to sneak in and out of the house unnoticed. She probably would have, had it not been for nature calling. He brushed past her on the stairs, not saying a word, but put his fist through the wall after hearing her heels descend the steps, the front door close, and her car make its journey down the driveway and back to the main road.

The second was on purpose, thought not on her part. He stood nonchalantly by her car in the hospital’s parking lot as her shift was ending, excited to tell her that he was getting help, that he met with the therapist today, hoping that he could convince Scully, simply with this first meeting and a prescription, that he was better, that she could come home. She was startled, at first, to see him waiting for her, but she let him talk, heard him out. Broke his heart all over when she eventually told him that she wouldn’t be coming home. They hadn’t talked since.

The honk from another car snaps him back to the present, and he signals for this one to pass him, as well, just as he did the last. He lifts his sunglasses from his eyes and sighs, wipes one of his sweaty palms on his jeans.

“Did you need something? More things to collect from the house? I mean, you drove all the way out here.” He doesn’t mean for his tone to sound curt, or maybe he does. He loathes himself a little bit for letting everything between them get so bad.

She hesitates before responding. “No, I, uh… just wanted to check up on you.” Her eyes are unwavering on his, and he sees a hint of armistice in their twinkle. But it’s masked by the sorrow after his comment, that her only purpose for coming to the house would be to retrieve more of her things.

He smiles, but it’s more of a grimace. He doesn’t know why he’s reacting this way. Their mutual respite is fading, becoming short-lived. He wants to cling to it the way he used to cling to her, those nights on the run. Communicating with her used to be so easy, their feelings so clear. He can’t remember the last time they seemed to be in harmony. Maybe, it dawns on him, they never really were.

He wonders what to tell his therapist today.

“I should let you go.” She sounds resistant. “Don’t want you to be late to your appointment.” Her focus turns back to her gearshift.

“Scully?” Her window is partially rolled up and she's taken her car out of park. Her hair partially conceals her face. “You told me once that you wouldn't change a day. That you'd do it all over again. Is that still true?”

She doesn’t face him when she responds, clearly carefully considering what to say. “No.”

He offers a quick nod, as if in agreement, bringing his sunglasses back down. He didn’t expect her answer to hurt so much, though he shares her sentiments.

“I’ll uh, see ya around, Doc.” He takes his foot off the break and continues his trek toward the city, watching in his rearview mirror as she turns around in the middle of the road, and follows him out to the highway, wondering if they’ll really ever find their way back.


	14. (10)

He stops for gas halfway back to Philadelphia, baffled by the impracticality of her gas-guzzling SUV. Her head is against the window, fingers twiddling with the quarter that lies on the chain around her neck, eyes staring off into something, into nothing; she’s been like that since they pulled away from the hospital, hasn’t said a word since she pulled away from his embrace and begged him to let her work.

She apparently hadn’t realized right away that he had stopped the car, gotten out of it, even, and he notices the instant her mind registers their pit stop, the panic that rushes to her face. She searches anxiously and he hurts for her, her unease; she finds him through the window, though her face doesn’t show any relief, as he refuels. He smiles at her as a way of offering comfort, feels her mind racing with a million thoughts and questions, wishes he can take her pain away.

He thinks of all that they’ve lost in their time together, the affliction that they’ve faced. Her father, his father. Her sister, his sister. His mother, now her mother.

Her daughter.  _ Their _ son. Each other, arguably. Themselves, at times, undoubtedly.

Often, when you lose something, you don’t get it back. They’ve experienced plenty of loss in each of their fifty-something years, more so than the average person, he thinks. But he’s always been one to want to defy the odds. In fact, he wants to tell these odds, of finding something that’s been lost, that they can go screw themselves.

She may be the one thing he’s lost that he actually wants back.

The remainder of their drive is silent, save for the podcast he’s playing off his phone through her car’s Bluetooth connection; he keeps the volume that emanates through the speakers on the quieter side, but be hasn’t really heard a single word of this episode, hasn’t really been paying attention to his driving, either. It shakes him, for a second, how well he seems to function with his body essentially on autopilot. While his mind concentrates on, is overwhelmed by thoughts of her, glancing at her what feels like every five seconds. They’re both trying to appear composed, controlled; they’re both experts at putting up façades.

They’re five miles away from the exit when she asks him to pull over, when she empties her stomach on the side of the highway. It quickly turns into dry heaving and sobbing, much to her dismay, he’s sure. She collects herself much quicker than he expected; she’s the strongest person he knows, even when she shouldn’t be. He’s concerned that she may be dehydrated. Exhausted.

Her mother just died and her last words were about their child. Ashamed.

He wants to touch her, rub her back, whisper to her that it’s all right. He wants to wrap her up in his arms and let her cling to him, rock her, pepper her face with soft kisses, never let her go again, like she did for him when his mother died. But he’s unsure of how much more comfort she’ll accept from him, before she’ll feel like she’s suffocating, like his hovering is too much. He thinks she may already be there.

She wipes her mouth with her sleeve and rummages through her purse for a mint. He’s gentle when he speaks, because there is genuine concern. “Scully, when was the last time you slept?”

She’s too immediate with her responsive, like she didn’t even think about it, like a reflex. “Mulder I’m fi-”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her eyes lift briefly but don’t fully meet his, and she slowly adjusts herself in the passenger seat, slumping a little, maybe. Not accepting, not resigning. Just being. He turns the car back on, veers it back onto the highway, just to get off at the next exit.

He pulls into a Days Inn, which, to his credit, is a step up from their normal Bureau digs. He won’t tell her that this one is on his dime. She needs sleep, even if only a few hours, a fresh change of clothes. They’ll have to make due with the only former.

He gets a key and moves the car so it’s right in front of the room. She doesn’t make an effort to open the car door, and he doesn’t push her; she will, when she’s ready, she’s not putting up a fight. He knows this. He knows her. Which is why he’s not surprised when she finally asks. He knows it’s been at the forefront of her mind since, since.

“Do you… do you think that we should try to find him?”

He doesn’t ask who “him” is. He also doesn’t think it’s a good idea, not now, at least. But he would never tell her that, deny her that. It has to be her own conclusion. He chooses his words carefully. “Is that what you want?”

She sighs. “What I want is for him to be safe.”

He grabs her hand from across the console, palm to palm, interlaces their fingers. He brushes her thumb with his and tries to find reassurance, despite that she has yet to look at him.

“What if that’s what my mother was trying to tell us? That he’s not safe.” She chokes out the last part as barely a whisper. It’s impossible, too painful for either of them to fathom. He grips her tighter.

“How would she know, Scully?”

“Grandmother’s intuition.” She mumbles, like she’s unsure. Like she’s grasping at straws.

He chuckles because it’s a little ridiculous and he knows under normal circumstances, she would think so, too. But she’s desperate for answers, for some sort of rationale. He knows that feeling all too well. He chuckles because it sounds like something he would have said.

“Let’s rest. Even if only for a little.” She nods so quickly he sure he’s imagined it.

Finally,  _ finally _ , he thinks, they lock eyes. Hers are red-rimmed but strikingly blue, and he catches a stray tear with his free thumb. He thinks that maybe she feels as if every part of her is being pulled in all different directions, searching for her answers, about her mother, about William. The way he once felt. But still, he looks at her like she’s the reason love exists. And he hopes she knows that.

This is how she used to look at him. Before.

There isn’t a question, whether or not they love each other. Their love is fierce, strong. He knows this, always has. It is worthy, deserving, enough so to endure tests and battles; and oh, how there have been tests, battles. It stands up to forces arrayed against it, despite. Where they falter in their love is in their strength in each other, not allowing the other to solve their problems, because they would rather anguish privately than share those burdens. They’ve both suffered enough; they want to protect each other from themselves. That’s how it’s always been. At one point, they had gotten past that.

Lost. They have lost themselves, drowning in their own torment, their own insecurities, their esoteric quests. And once they settle their internal crusades, it is then that they can return completely to each other. Found. Whole.

This, he realizes, as he guides her to the bed, knowing they will always have questions with impossible answers, is how they start.

  
  



	15. (11)

He hears the tires crunch the gravel below, the sloshing of puddles and mud, before seeing the headlights shine through the screen. The rain began a few hours ago, so he propped the front door open to listen as the water pelted all of Virginia, smell the fresh beginnings of spring. Though the headlights disappeared several minutes ago, no one had yet to emerge from the car. He quickly peers out through the screen, confirming his suspicions of his guest, pulls on his boots and jacket, and throws his hood up before jogging out to her car, careful not to slip on the slick steps.  
  
He slides into the passenger side, curses under his breath when he realizes that she doesn’t have the heat on. Headlights off, engine not running, all signs point to her intending to exit her car; and yet.  
  
“You know, if you had just come into the house, I wouldn’t have gotten your seat all wet.” He chuckles, downplays his concern with humor, huffs a little bit to catch his breath from his quick attempt at getting into the car. “What are you doing out here, woman? It’s freezing.” She keeps her eyes fixated straight ahead, almost as if she’s looking past the house, almost as if she’s in a trance.  
  
“Scully?”  
  
At the sound of her name, she seems to come back to herself, but she still refuses to make eye contact, directing her eyes to her lap instead. “I came here to ask you something, but I, uh... seem to have lost my courage.”  
  
He pulls her hands from the wheel, rubbing them against his own to warm them up. He brings them to his lips and presses a kiss on her knuckles, twining her fingers with his. “You should never be afraid to ask me anything.”  
  
“I’m not afraid. I’m more… ashamed, I guess. That I’m only now coming to realize.” He sees her breath every time she exhales. His heart aches, watching her struggle. She sniffs and inhales deeply, steadying herself.  
  
“Mulder, I’ve always admired your strength. To carry on when all hope was lost. To believe when everyone else didn’t. To love me, against all odds.” She takes another deep breath, finally meeting his eyes. “To forgive me, when I gave up our son.”  
  
He swallows the lump in his throat. She’s opening up; he will not make a show.  
  
“You know that I don’t believe in fate, or destiny, for that matter. But I can’t help but question why we always seem to come back to each other, and how we found each other in the first place. It’s like the universe dropped us into the same time and space and decided, let’s see what we can make with these two.”  
  
“Trouble, is usually what we made.” She smirks at his remark, ducking her head for a second.  
  
“Even though I don’t believe in those things, I’m taking a leap of faith, conjuring strength that I hope emanates what I do believe, which is you. We’ve been through too much to not finish this journey together. I feel in my heart what is meant to be. I’m done ignoring fate. And listening to my therapist.” They both half-suppress laughter for that last comment.  
  
“Mulder I want to come home. To stay.”  
  
He gives pause, but only for a second; he’s slightly perplexed. “Scully this is your house.”  
  
“Yes, but I left. I need… it wouldn’t feel right, without your permission. For me to come back.”  
  
Tears are threatening to break, from both of them. She’s too good to him, to ask for permission to return to her own home. His Scully, so rational and introspective, even when she’s trying not to be.  
  
“Oh, Scully.” It comes out as a whisper. He’s unbuckling her seatbelt and drawing her to him. The front of his jacket is wet, from the rain or the tears she finally relinquished, he can’t tell. He kisses the crown of hair and brings their foreheads together.  
  
“Of course, _of course_.” He doesn’t want to sound desperate, but he is. He’s not going to mask his joy; he swears he’s beaming. He’s waited six years for her to come to this decision.  
  
His hands cup her cheeks and she brings hers to encircle his wrists, her breath calming, in tandem with his, her heartbeat evening, falling into rhythm with the patter of the rain against the windshield. They’re quiet for what seems like forever.  
  
“I understand what you meant, now, when you said that I made you a whole person.” He nods, listening intently, face twisting slightly, wondering why she’s bringing this up, almost twenty years later. “I challenged you. I pushed you to find proof, evidence, to see things differently. But I’ve realized the same can be said for me. You’ve challenged me, made me question everything I knew to be true, made me seek my proof. _You_ make _me_ a whole person, too, Mulder.”  
  
He thinks about all the times they’ve said “I love you” to each other: in grungy motels, in the dark of their basement office, in the confines of their shared residence, through the phone. As they departed most days, after cooking dinner, when they made love. In secret, accidentally in front of loved ones. Intentionally. This is as much of an admission as speaking the actual words. This is so much more. This is the two of them. Forever. Finally.  
  
The rain continues to fall, intensifying, even, just like it did on their first case. He smiles.


End file.
